


all that jazz

by andysmmrs



Category: The Terror (TV 2018), The Terror - Dan Simmons
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1920s, Bootleggers/Rum-runners AU, They're Americans In This One, tea on the rocks
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-02
Updated: 2020-01-21
Packaged: 2021-02-27 03:28:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,367
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22080340
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/andysmmrs/pseuds/andysmmrs
Summary: The year is 1926,Mayor John Franklin has appointed Captain Francis Crozier and Commander James Fitzjames as leaders of a team committed to raiding speakeasies.Cornelius Hickey runs Detroit's fastest growing organized crime ring.John Irving is going undercover.
Relationships: (I'll add more as they come up), William Gibson/Cornelius Hickey
Comments: 8
Kudos: 13





	1. In Which Irving is Tasked, and A Friend is Captured

**Author's Note:**

  * For [tea on the rocks](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=tea+on+the+rocks).



Here’s the way that it was: the year was 1926, and Detroit had been six years into the prohibition of alcohol. Volstead had done little to slow the sale of booze for the folks that were wanting it, and it was already costing the government millions in taxes. In retrospect, the Temperance movement’s boldest stroke had done more harm to the cause than ever expected, organized crime found a particularly productive avenue: rum-running.

It was the smuggling of the booze in and out of the city - the crime that flourished because of it - that had been on the mind of John Franklin, who had been mayor of Detroit for two unproductive years, plaguing him terribly. An upstanding Christian and teetotaler himself, Franklin had of course accepted the Temperance movement’s anti-alcoholic gospel, and was quick to draw up a force specific to raiding speakeasies, to catching bootleggers, and to chasing every last trace of organized crime out of the city. 

Well, that was two years ago, and if any significant progress was meant to have been made, it evaded Francis Crozier, the man leading the team. Crozier was by no means a teetotaler, and he kept matters he deemed political out of his mouth in private and public settings. The Temperance movement was one of those things decided to be political. 

A great deal of work had been put into the goal this team was to accomplish, and the group was made up of mostly capable, enthusiastic men. Mostly is the operative word, and the exception was Edward Little. It wasn’t that Edward didn’t believe in the cause, in fact, just the opposite was true, but he had been having a tough two years. That morning, Little rose early, before the sun was up. He dressed in relative darkness, walked what would have been his usual path to work, and then deviated. There didn’t seem to be another soul awake this early, the street was so quiet in this part of town, but Edward knew better. Though for a short time, the only thing audible was the clicking of his soles on concrete. 

On a street far from his apartment, around the back of an old and decrepit building, there was the muffled sound of a jazz record playing behind a door, and a man singing along. If Fred Astaire was playing, it meant it was Solomon meeting him today for pickup, and Astaire was on. He knocked, and Solomon cracked the door open just enough for the warmth inside the building to pour out, along with quite a lot of cigarette smoke.

“He’s drank it all already? Guess he gave up tryin’ to ration things out, eh?” Solomon’s got a smirk on his face as Edward pushes past him. “A regular boozehound, someone ought to talk to him.”

“I’ll see to it.” Edward replies, taking out the four glass flasks he had concealed in his jacket, setting them on the table as Solomon gets to filling them. “Dunno why you care, we’re keeping you in business, aren’t we?” 

“Small operations don’t need much to keep up.”

“Small operations, sure. With who you run with?” 

“And who’s that?” 

Edward, shrugs, shakes his head. He’ll back down, now, but they both know Solomon’s not always been as careful talking about what he’s been doing in the year that they’ve known each other as he should have been. To his credit, he doesn’t know Edward’s a cop, and even if he did, he’s talking to a cop who’s picking up Canadian whiskey to bring back to his boss. There’s nothing Edward can do in this situation, he doesn’t even know the man’s family name, or if he’s even been given a real name at all. But to retain some air of confidentiality, Solomon’s never said directly that he works for Cornelius Hickey, and Edward would never ask him. How he’d even ask is beyond him, anyway, going to a man and just simply asking if he’s pals with a man wanted for murder, larceny, and of course, rum-running. 

And golly, if Crozier were to know where he gets his whiskey! But he’ll never wonder, and Edward doesn’t want to think about who he’s consorting with, not when it’s Crozier asking for him to do it.

“See you tomorrow, I expect.” Solomon can’t help but add, as he passes the final filled bottle of whiskey back to Edward.

“Should this continue as it has…” Edward acknowledges, and then goes on his way. 

As far as Solomon knows, his way is back home, or to his father’s house directly, with the booze. Solomon doesn’t stay long in the pick-up place, he’s got other places to be. It’s near sunrise now, meaning Billy Gibson, lounge singer extraordinaire will be rising with it, and he’ll need tending to. 

Solomon doesn’t mind the drive over to Billy’s place, though, mostly because of how much he liked his car. It had been a gift from Hickey for “phenomenal service”, and although Solomon was sure there was a reason his gut was telling him not to accept the car, he did, of course. It was a Pilot Sedan, red, and was the first car Solomon had ever owned. The top was up, for now, as it was still cold in the city, but he knew when he arrived at Billy’s place, he’d have to put the top down, because that’s how Billy likes it. 

For the time being, Hickey had his beau put up in the Hotel Stoat, which had come into his recent ownership after months of backdoor dealing, blackmailing, and some violence, exercised mostly on Solomon’s part. The Stoat was enormous, and made of red brick that contrasted sharply the clean and bright glamour the decor inside held. The walls were a subdued golden color, and from the ceiling in the main lobby hung not one but three fantastic crystal chandeliers. For all of its charms, the furniture in the lobby was not very comfortable.

Still, it’s more comfortable than standing around and waiting, which he does do quite a bit of, until finally Billy comes down the stairs with Hickey in tow. William Gibson: “Billy” to Hickey and, occasionally, to Solomon himself, was the only man he knew who could keep Hickey “in tow”, and for the life of him, he couldn’t guess why. Billy seemed to almost always be in a discontented and distant mood. Polite, but removed. Except now, he seemed to be upset about something. He caught just pieces of the conversation, as they drew nearer.

“I’ve told you, it is practical. It’s to keep you safe. The coppers can try and track me down if they’d like, I’m practically invisible to them. You, Billy, you like being public.”

“So I keep moving around or I stop singing? Is that the ultimatum?” 

“I couldn’t have summed it up better myself.”

“It’s not fair. This is the second time you’ve moved me this month. I’d only just got comfortable in the last place. The Stoat doesn’t even have closets in the room, Cornelius. I’m having to hang my clothes on a rack.” 

“How cruel.”

They stop bickering once they’re aware they’re in earshot of Solomon, who nods, feeling like an intrusive third in the duo. Luckily, this is remedied quickly enough when Billy says he’s going down to The Island, leaving the two of them to do business, presumably. Different to what he had guessed his day would entail, but no cause for trouble.

The Island was an underground bar attached to The Stoat, which had been an old storage place before Hickey decided the space had potential. It was heavily themed to look like a tropical paradise - or at least, Hickey’s vision of one. Plastic flowers and vines and palm trees were scattered throughout the establishment. There was a polished wooden dance floor, some tables which sat around six - all with one or two ashtrays to them, and a very long bar. There also was a relatively small stage, upon which there was a piano, and pieces to a small brass band, and a microphone of course. The equipment was kept behind a red velvet curtain, though. It was built under Hickey’s heavy and precise supervision, and he was quite proud of it. The regulars at The Island were all the folk who were similar to Hickey in some sort of way. There was Charles Des Voeux, who was a criminal, although of the white-collar sort (a banker) and quite corrupt. Similar to Hickey not entirely in lifestyle, but certainly in his proclivity towards male partners was Henry Collins, a dewdropper with a quite colorful if not turbulent personality. 

But Billy had left the two of them to do business, and it was unpleasant business that Hickey vaguely explained to Solomon as he drove across downtown Detroit, to another of Hickey’s covers, this one being an old restaurant. As soon as the two of them walked in, the men working, Pilkington and Manson, made quick work of closing the place down, ushering out the two men that had been eating together in the booth near the entrance. Locking the door and turning the closed sign ‘round, the closest of Hickey’s men gathered around to hear the Boss’ news. 

“None of you men know me to sugarcoat things, so I’ll be plain now. What I’ve got to say is not good news. We’ve been having a very, very prosperous few years. I’m proud of you all for that. But we’ve been getting sloppy, haven’t we? We get rich, we get confident, we aren’t so careful. Men, deliberate action is crucial for an enterprise like this to work. Without it, we get caught. Now, one of us did.” 

At this news, Solomon cuts in. Hickey had mentioned trouble, but this was different. Depending on the man caught, this could be well beyond trouble. 

“Who was it? Will he talk?”

“I don’t know him well enough to say, Mr. Tozer. You tell me, does William Heather seem like the type to talk to coppers?” 

Heather! Solomon felt sick with worry immediately. He had been the one to introduce Heather to the world of rum-running, introduce him to Hickey, to all of it. Heather had been Solomon’s friend for so many years, he was practically married to the guy. And yet, he hadn’t seen him in weeks, now that he gave it thought. He had just been so busy all the time. Dodging raids, watching over Billy, being the muscle to Hickey’s brains whenever Hickey needed him. Where had Heather been?

“How long ago was he brought in?” he demands, an uncharacteristic display of aggression towards Hickey, especially in front of the other men. 

Hickey responds with equal hostility, although of course it’s in his own aloof, indifferent way. 

“It only happened last night. I’m sure he’s fine, they only just copped him, it’ll be awhile before he’s anywhere other than the county jail, it’ll be a snap to crush him out.” 

“Good.” Solomon resumes his place leaning against one of the booths. 

“Will he talk?” 

“No. Never, he’s a good man. I’d trust him with my life.”  
“Plenty of good men do stupid things when they’re made to feel desperate.” Hickey quips back, almost as if only to bait Solomon into protesting, but he doesn’t. He looks Solomon over before turning back to the rest of the men. 

“I want our sources in Canada moved. And the ones in England. Make it so we were never there. Find new ones. Understood?” he waits for the confirming head nods before continuing, “We’re cutting personnel down as well. I don’t want any more friend-of-a-friend hires. If someone in this room doesn’t know them personally, he’s not workin’ for us. Is that understood?”

After another chorus of affirmation, Hickey makes small talk, asking about business otherwise, which is going well, as always. Attention to other ventures will have to be siphoned into focus on The Stoat, although as of the present there are no plans on closing any of Hickey’s establishments. This news comes as a relief to Manson, who seemed upset at the idea that he might have to quit his job as head chef at the diner. 

Solomon’s tuned most of it out, though. He can’t stop thinking about Heather, and the more he thinks about him, the more guilty he feels. Even as he tries to make excuses. He was so very busy, the charges against Heather aren’t going to carry a life sentence, will they? Certainly not a death penalty. But what if they know who Heather runs with? If they decide to press for information… He makes up his mind that he’d really rather not think about it, and concentrates on what is to be the new job at hand - running the most successful speakeasy in Detroit through The Stoat. 

Some miles away, also in downtown Detroit, John Irving sits at his desk at the police station and tries to focus, although his efforts are proving fairly fruitless, as he’s quite distracted by his coworker, Edward, who’s falling asleep at his desk, again. John’s quite fond of Edward, or at least as fond of him as men ever are of their friends. And he and Edward are friends, and that’s all John can convince himself of. It’s a lie, because it’s an omission of the truth, and the truth is that every now and then he’ll find himself feeling a way he doesn’t believe he ought to be feeling for another man. Like when Edward looks up at him now, through half-lidded eyes, tired, how he might look if you woke up beside him. John drops his pen and has to duck under his desk to retrieve it. 

Edward goes to yawn but forcibly cuts it short, sitting up straighter and more alert when Crozier walks in the room, with Mayor Franklin, no less. John, in his rush to be as attentive as Edward, bumps his head on the desk on the way up, his things rattling around, two more pens falling onto the floor. There’s a third man with Mayor Franklin and Crozier, taller than either of them, and exceedingly handsome. He wore his hair curiously long, but he was clean shaven, and very fashionable, and did somewhat of a disservice standing next to Crozier and Mayor Franklin by virtue of his attractiveness. 

Francis was disgruntled, which had become his natural state, but the lack of satisfaction from Mayor Franklin was manifesting in particularly unignorable ways - first it was calling him daily asking about progress, which was manageable, but in his opinion, Franklin had really gone overboard here. Hiring a man not to be Francis’ right-hand-man exactly, but to be more so his equal in making decisions on the proceedings of the team. There was a part of him that began to fear - just in the slightest - that this new partner of his might be as zealous of a teetotaler as Franklin himself was. 

The Temperance movement to James Fitzjames, was doing more harm than good. But Fitzjames was also aware that the law was what it was, and if folks were going to break it - especially in ways that would beget violence, like the gangs that were starting to run rampant in Detroit - then they needed to go to jail, or prison, in more extreme cases. His opinion of Crozier has eroded away from indifference to dislike over these two years of ineffective leadership, despite the fact that he had never met the man until today. Eager to change how things had been in the downtown precinct, he had thought up a new tactic, and was ready to introduce it on the first day.

“We’ll be sending a man in undercover. He’ll get close to the rum-runners, learn their secrets, how they operate,” Fitzjames had explained, passing out folders containing information on the topic to Irving, Crozier, and Little, the latter two exchanging nervous glances, which Fitzjames took note of. “Seeing as Little is the senior officer of your men, Crozier, I think it would be wisest to send him.” 

Panic bells rung in Edward’s head, and if the look Crozier had just given him was any indication, his superior was experiencing the same thing. Quickly, though, they dissipated, the more he thought about the work. It might be suitable, actually, suitable and conducive to a solution. He did know Solomon, that was an in already. All he required now was to get closer to him, maybe work some secrets out of him. Solomon did get rather chatty when he’d drink…

“No, it won’t be Little. I need him too much for analyzing data here. That’s his strong suit.” Crozier spoke with a casual finality he hadn’t used in months, surprising even himself. 

Fitzjames, who had been on a tangent of sorts explaining the specifics of the project, looked flummoxed, blinking rapidly before finally speaking, stumbling a bit over his words.

“Who, then, did you have in mind?” 

“Irving,” Crozier turns to the other, “would you accept this job?” 

John’s at a loss of words for a moment, surprised that Crozier’s asking him to do anything at all, as the few orders he usually did get to investigate things came from Edward, and not Crozier directly. He makes up his mind quickly, though.

“Yes, sir, I would.” 

“Then it’s settled. Fitzjames, I approve of your plot, but you must enact it with Irving as your man.” Crozier pats Irving on the shoulder like it’s some sort of hurried knighting ceremony, and then heads back into his office, leaving the three other men to sort themselves. 

Edward doesn’t understand it, at first. He isn’t usually the jealous sort, especially when it comes to his career, but he can’t make heads or tails of why Crozier would give this mission to Irving instead of him. And it wasn’t anything against Irving, Irving was a lovely man, sure, but it had made so much sense to give Edward this mission, and he had wanted a mission so badly. For months he had done nothing but enable his superior, he was itching for the chance to be put to some use. Now, finally, his chance comes, and it’s passed to a man who had - assumedly - none of the resources that Edward had gathered himself while consorting with rum-runners and all other sorts of bad men.

Finally, however, the terrible truth came to him, and it wasn’t nearly as shocking as it should have been, but was merely accepted by Edward with a bitter resignation. Crozier picked Irving because he knew Irving to be bumbling, awkward, and above almost everything else, bad at lying. A good, upstanding man like Irving trying to play the petty criminal was sure to fail miserably. And Crozier wanted it to fail. Edward took a quicker route home after work that night, thinking to himself that despite what he’d like to do, he knew what he was going to do was what he’d been doing. Look into pointless leads, follow endless strings of clues, and fetch Crozier his whiskey. 

John Irving lays in bed with much more hope in his heart, though. He knows this will be important work, something that needs to be handled with a level head. There’s anxiety, of course, but excitement overwhelms it. Playing the gangster, getting inside one’s head, catching a criminal by outsmarting one, it was the stuff of mystery novels. Tomorrow he’d go out, looking for speakeasies to get acquainted with, and then he’d be well on his way.


	2. In Which There Are Several Quarrels, and a Breakthrough

So John set out the next day in his car armed with a small folder full of all the leads Edward had managed to give him. Both men had seemingly had an uncomfortable awareness of how thin the folder was, and Edward seemed to have been apologizing silently as best as he could, with an almost embarrassed expression and the slightest shrug as he handed the folder over. 

“Is… this all there is?” He had asked, trying not to let his tone tell too much about his disappointment.

“This is all the leads we have. Every single one of them.”

John had set to pouring over every lead as best as he could, being careful to maintain an air of coolness as he spoke to each person at every diner, hotel, pharmacy, and hairdresser’s salon he found on the list. 

And so far, none had a clue what he was talking about, least of all the bookkeeper Bridgens who’s store John left now, still muttering self-deprecating apologies under his breath for the uncomfortably conversation the two of them had kept.

“Do you make much money, selling books?” John had inquired, thumbing through a volume of Voltaire the bookkeeper’s assistant had helpfully suggested to him. 

There was a point to the question, if Bridgens confessed to not having much money, then maybe John could insinuate other ways he might be making money. In a friendly way, of course. Maybe even mention how much he could use a drink. That’d really drop the hint, and if Bridgens was in fact running some secret speakeasy, then it’d no beef getting into it. 

“Oh, I make enough, why do you ask?” Bridgens had answered politely, handing more books over to his assistant for shelving. 

“No reason, only…” After not getting the answer he had anticipated, John floundered for a second trying to find something to keep the subject up. In reflection, maybe he should have dropped it, because what he thought of to say next was clearly not it. “... books stores are going out of business all over, don’t you think? Reading’s a real unfashionable thing to do these days.”

The assistant had stopped shelving, and Bridgens had tilted his head to the side. The crease which appeared and deepened in Bridgen’s brow as John continued on talking should’ve been indication enough to stop. Unfortunately, John did not stop.

“Well, they just seem so old-world. What with the movies and the radio and all that, they’re becoming pointless, aren’t they? I mean I’m sure they’re nice for decoration and all, but honestly, who reads anymore? Who’s got the time?” 

John wasn’t even sure what his point was anymore, or why he was saying it. Demeaning a man’s work certainly isn’t how to get any answers out of him! John knew that, and beyond that, loved to read anyway. As he kept on digging himself into his stance on literature, Bridgens was at a loss of words, although his assistant was not.

“Listen, pal, why stroll into a joint if you think what we offer here is so pointless, anyway? Not all of us have the bees to sail off to Paris at the drop of a hat. Readin’ takes thinkin’ an’ imagination, so I get why a mug like you wouldn’t appreciate it, but if you aren’t gonna buy nothin’-”

Bridgens pats his assistant on the shoulder, and thankfully, the torrent stops. John’s sure he’s blushing now, the assistant’s read in the face as well, but he huffs and goes back to his shelving.

“I apologize for the insults on the behalf of Henry, sir, but if you aren’t going to buy anything, I must remind you this is a bookstore, not a library.” Bridgens raised his hands in a passive sort of way, but John took the meaning well enough, buy something, or don’t, but leave.

Feeling guilty, John purchased the Voltaire which he had been clutching in his hands. As Bridgens rung it up for him at the register, Henry muttered something about decor from behind the bookshelves. John felt he couldn’t leave the store fast enough, apologizing at the counter and then when he was at the door, and then several times, to no one in particular on his way to the car. 

Hickey climbed out of the boat, accepting the hand Solomon held out to him. A civil enough gesture that was spoiled by the force at which Solomon pulls him out of the boat with, although he lets him go once he’s on solid shore. Hickey already knew Solomon was upset with him, but there were more pressing matters. He had an empire to build, and if that meant neglecting the men closest to him, the men he knew he wouldn’t lose, then so be it. He knew his hooks were into both Solomon and Billy deep enough that he could do almost anything and they’d still stay by him. Especially Solomon. 

So what if Heather had been copped? A couple nights in the cooler only helps a man to be more careful the next time. He himself could testify to that. But Solomon was worried, meaning Hickey would be burdened by hearing those worries over and over. Nagging little thing, he was, at times like this. Right when he’d need a man to be as distant and unemotional as possible. To not give a damn and just do the job. That was Hickey’s only real quarrel with Solomon. God, did he give a damn! 

“It’s not unreasonable for me to want you to have a plan, Cornelius. I don’t even want details, I don’t need a date, but we really need to have something in consideration for breaking him out.”

“It’s been two nights. He’s not wasting away, I’m sure.” He waits for Solomon to open the door to the Windsor Concessional, a small Ontario diner that tried - despite funds and location that would insinuate the opposite - to be a sophisticated eatery. 

Not-so-affectionately known as “The WC” by some of Hickey’s compatriots, the establishment wasn’t a place he was looking to buy, or even a place he would condescend to eat at, but it was the day job for the Hartnell brothers, who were the sneakiest - that is to say, the best - rum-runners north of the Detroit River. The pair of them worked at the WC, one as a cook, one as a waiter. Neither of them were particularly gifted in either trade, bless their hearts, but they could work magic when it came to bootlegging. Tom, the younger brother, perks up when Hickey and Solomon come in through the doors of the otherwise empty diner.

“Ah! Good morning! What can I get started for you two gentlem-” Tom’s cut short by the stack of cash Hickey’s dropped onto the counter. There’s a silence for a while, then, “That’s a lot of cabbage. Who’s it for?” 

“You, if you’re for hire at the moment.” Solomon asserts, and from the change in Tom’s demeanor it’s clear he gets where the conversation is headed. 

“This a one-time thing, or…?” Tom questions casually, reaching for the cash before Solomon slides it barely out of reach.  
“It’d be a long-term employment, for you and your brother. You’d be making good money. This, and more. We pay good for good work.” Solomon carries on, until he’s interrupted. 

“Who’s we?” The older brother, John, chimes in from the kitchen, leaning out the service window. “We like to know who we’re workin’ for.” 

“Of course,” Now it’s Hickey’s turn to interject. “Hickey’s the name, Cornelius Hickey. This here is Tozer.”

“Cornelius Hickey outta Detroit? The one what did all those bank robberies this time last year?” Tom enthuses, at the dismay of his brother, “You had your men throw money out in the streets, people were grabbing fistfuls of it and shovin’ ‘em in their pockets. Cops were so distracted tryin’ t’keep folks off the streets that you were able to get away.”

“So you’ve heard of us.”

“Who hasn’t?” Tom responds with a grin, then, feeling his brother’s eyes on him, fixes his tone, remembering suddenly to stay casual. “You still have all the money from that heist?”

“Couldn’t spend a score that big quick enough if we tried,” Hickey says, already knowing he’s already got at least one of the brothers. Time and time again, money proves to be an underrated motivator, just like now, with the younger Hartnell. “So, what do you say? Sound like a beneficial employment opportunity to you men?”

“Why do you want us? Can’t you plant your own boys on either side of the border? Ain’t it more trouble havin’ more fellas than you already got?” John challenges, crossing his arms.

“We’re actually downsizing, as a matter of fact. We’re changing plenty of our operation this side of the border. Getting rid of old partnerships, finding newer ones. Better ones. I’ve been told you two are the best.”

“Cos we are. And we’re takin’ your offer! We’ve been outta business for too long, on account of our Ma don’t like us bootleggin’ much, last time she found out we were doin’ it she whupped John from here to-" 

"Thomas!" With a disapproving glare, the younger brother's officially shut up, and John turns to Solomon and Hickey. "We appreciate your time, but we'll need time to carefully consider your offer." 

"That's all we can ask you both to do." Hickey replies, a picture of perfect modesty. He takes the cash off of the counter, putting it back in his pocket as Tom opens his mouth to speak, and then closes it. 

The two of them are out of the diner and down the street when the door is thrown open, and Tom runs after them down the street, catching them out of breath to tell them that if they can have a spotter out on the southern side of the river tomorrow, he'll get 80 liters of Canadian whiskey over in his rowboat. Hickey smiles, and confirms they'll have one over waiting on the other side tomorrow morning. 

As Solomon's rowing them both back, he's wondering between puffs of a cigarette whatever it is Hickey could be thinking about. No doubt, the man had plenty on his mind. What concerned Solomon was the clear disconnect between what Hickey saw to prioritize, and what he saw to prioritize. Hickey didn't think Heather being with the police was a problem, and that was likely because Solomon had told him he didn't think Heather would talk. All that meant was that any reluctance to get Heather out on Hickey's part was Solomon's fault. So it was that Solomon had got it in his brain to maybe tell Hickey otherwise. As backwards as it was, to Hickey, a loyal man could wait in prison for as long as it took for him to get around to freeing him, because he'd never talk, and thus was no threat when he was around coppers. Someone who might inform, however, that was someone that needed to be kept from the police. 

"You said good men do stupid things when they're desperate, right?" 

"If this is about Heather, I don’t want to hear another word about him until we’re back in Detroit.”

“I said he wouldn’t talk, but that was me bein’ charitable.” 

“Charitable?” Hickey looks at him now from his perch at the other end of the boat, turned out so his whole body was towards the water. “How do you mean?”

“Heather’s my friend. I’d like t’think he wouldn’t talk, but I’m not so sure.” 

“How ‘not sure’ are you, Solomon?”

“Here’s my thinkin’, say they find out he’s with me, and then they find out I’m with you, well, Cornelius Hickey, infamous gangster, that’s a much bigger catch than some nameless bootlegger.”

“You’re worried they’ll rough him up trying to get dirt on me out of him?”

“I am. I’m also worried he might give us up. He’s loyal, no doubt. He’d never want to give any of us up, but you know how rough those coppers can get in their interrogations.”

Hickey’s turned away from Solomon again, looking back out at the water. For some time it’s quiet, while Hickey thinks. All Solomon can listen to is the sound of the nearly smooth water of the river churning at the sides of the boat as they bob their way back to Detroit. He imagines he can see the smoke coming out of Hickey’s ears, with all the thinking the man must be doing, because it’s no short while before Hickey speaks up again.

“You think there’s a good chance he might snitch?”

Solomon doesn’t like that word, he thinks it’s too harsh to mean Heather doing what Heather needs to do to keep himself alright. He can’t stand the thought of Heather being roughed up in some cell somewhere all because he wanted to make some easy money. Money’s the only reason Heather’s in any of this at all, because he needs it. Neither of them were exactly the employable sort after the war, especially not Heather. Bootlegging with Hickey’s the easiest money Heather and Solomon ever made, but the risk was high. Even if Heather knew that, it’s Solomon’s job to watch over him. So it’s up to him to solve this. If talking bad on his character was what was needed to get Hickey off his ass and bust Heather out of jail, then that’s what he’ll do.

“Yeah, if he’s pressed.”

“If he’s pressed? We don’t even know if they’re even suspecting him of knowing anything. You’re getting ahead of yourself.”  
Solomon doesn’t see the shore, as it’s behind him, and he doesn’t notice Hickey bracing, so when they scrape dry land, he almost falls backwards. Hickey gets out of the boat himself, hopping out and leaving Solomon to hide the boat, which he does, then runs to catch up with him.

“You still just want to leave him in there? What’ll it take to convince you?”

“I never said we’re leaving him there. I have a plan. If I don’t share details with you now it’s because we’re on a need-to-know basis, and currently, you don’t need to know. When it is convenient to get him out, we’ll get him out.” Hickey’s stopped walking, and is looking up at him with that look he gets when Solomon’s upset that makes Solomon feel like he’s being soothed and patronized at the same time. 

“Wait, we-”

“There’s a time to be daring, and there’s a time to be clever. We can’t afford a cloak and dagger operation now, especially if you think Heather is as sensitive as you’re saying he is now. Don’t worry. He’ll be fine.” Hickey pats him on the shoulder, and then leaves to get in his car, leaving Solomon to walk back to his, alone. 

John’s having a late lunch, eating on the curb beside his car. He’s ran through all of his leads in a single day, and now he’s cursing his own efficiency, wondering what Edward will say if he comes in tomorrow asking if there’s anything else for him to look for. Maybe he’ll just kill time for a week or so. That’s all they’ve been doing anyways, for two long years. Boy, did he understand Edward’s frustration at times. He’s flinging excess lettuce out of his sandwich when one of the mayo-logged leafy greens stick to the top of the shoe of some poor passerby. John groans inwardly as he rises, already composing an apology. Seems that apologizing is all he’s done all day.

To his luck, it would seem his victim had taken the lettuce attack with humor, as he was laughing. After wiping the lettuce off of the man’s shoe, and with a shock of great embarrassment, John realizes that the other man is quite handsome. 

“It’s alright, no harm done at all. Don’t like these shoes much either.” 

“Oh, are you sure? Thank goodness- I’ve… It’s been such a long day. A very long day. And, gosh, if it doesn’t seem like this city doesn’t have a single sympathetic soul inside it sometimes…” John lets himself trail off, becoming more aware of the improperness of unloading even a bit of his stress on a complete stranger. “I’m sorry. You don’t need to hear this, I shouldn’t trouble you, I-”

“Sounds like you’re in a bit of a jam, eh?” In what John could only sus out to be an undeserved about of grace, the stranger had a small but kind smile on his face. 

“I am. Work’s been a mess. Should I introduce myself? I should introduce myself- I’m Jo… oh. Joe. I’m Joe.” 

“Joe? Nice to meet you. I’m Solomon.” Solomon takes his hand, shaking it. “You look like you could use a drink.” 

Henry Collins is gowed-up, that much is clear, and on his fifth beer already, which isn’t to imply the first four haven’t hit him solidly enough. So he’s cut off, much to his annoyance. He lumbers off across the bar, wiping his nose on his sleeve, the room tilting and shifting as he makes his way across it. He stops at the bottom of the stairs, leaning against the wall, trying to get his bearings when the doors to The Island open, cold air drifting down from The Stoat and cutting off as two men start down the stairs together. Tozer, who Collins knows well enough, and then another man. Collins knows he knows him, but for the life of him, he can’t quite place him until he’s bumbled up the stairs and is on his way up to his room in The Stoat. He’s by himself in the corridor when he finally shouts out the name of the man: Officer Irving! What’s he doing at The Island?

Despite what most would probably like to believe, Billy Gibson is no idiot, and as soon as Solomon Tozer comes down the stairs with some other man, Billy knows something’s up. But he won’t take it to Hickey yet, he wants to get more of a feel for this guy. He’s up the stage, well, on the upright piano, really, which he’s draped himself atop, and he’s singing a song one of the men requested. As soon as he’s finished singing, though, he slides off of the piano, and informs the crowd that the band’s going to improvise a for a while so he can get something to drink, and he goes off to the bar to go and investigate Solomon and his date. 

If the man Solomon’s with is his date, he doesn’t seem to realize. Sure, he’s letting Solomon buy him drinks, but usually Solomon would be a lot more cozied up to whoever he’s keeping himself company with, but they’re barely touching elbows, sitting next to each other. Usually Solomon isn’t for shy ones, no matter how cute they may be, so what gives? He sits down next to Solomon, the smell of whiskey between Solomon and his friend nearly overpowering, and he tugs on his sleeve, asking him exactly that.

“Who’s the sap you got with you tonight, Tozer?” Billy asks, and he can hardly keep the smirk back as Solomon absentmindedly hums along to band’s playing, and the other man stares into his drink with an intense concentration. 

“Joe. Don’t get catty, he’s havin’ a rough day. I mean it.” Solomon mutters back, before turning to Joe, patting him on the back, “You feelin’ better yet, Joe?”

“Joe” nods, saying he feels loads better already, and he is. He’s never been a drinker, even before the Prohibition, while Edward and the rest of the men would go out regularly, he always went straight home. As much as he’d like to think it was because he didn’t care for the taste of beer or gin or whiskey, he knew it was more because of how difficult it was for him to make friends. Still, though, that’s a rather embarrassing to admit, and besides, he was having spectacular luck with Solomon thus far, so maybe he wasn’t doomed to be a graceless oaf. 

He was feeling quite drunk, though, that was becoming more evident. One second thought, it probably wasn’t wise to be drinking so much. After all, he was still on duty, or at least, he thought he was. With the way the lighting was at The Island, it was hard to tell what time it was. Staring at his watch for a while resulted in nothing, as his slow-working brain remembered after a long pause that his wristwatch had not been working for weeks. Damn it, he had meant to get that fixed.  
Solomon sits back down at the bar - which is odd, because John hadn’t remembered him getting up - and asks, remarkably enough, if John would like to dance with him.

“Dance with you? You mean to ask me to dance with you?” He asks, clearly confused, even after Solomon nods in confirmation, his next protest comes, “I can’t dance to this, the music’s too slow.”

“I think that’s when the name comes in, don’t it? ‘Slow dance’?” 

Oh. Solomon’s not asking if he wants to dance with him, he’s asking if he wants to dance with him, as a partner. Surely he’s joking, that’s the first thing John considers, but when he stalls, Solomon pulls him off of the barstool, and to the dance floor, and John lets him. He lets him lead, too, mostly because he’s still not sure if this whole thing is a joke or not. Either way, John turns a magnificent shade of red when Solomon pulls him close with an arm around his waist, keeping down a surprised yelp as he feels the heat spread upwards. 

If it is a joke, it’s a strange joke, very straight-faced humor. He’s never danced before, not with a woman and certainly not with a man, but it seems like they’re dancing as two should to a song like the one the band’s playing. Despite his desire to suppress it, John knows there’s a part of him that would like to believe that it isn’t a joke. Solomon’s playing it so straight-faced that it’s easy to pretend for a moment that he might be able to dance with a handsome man, and that a handsome man might like to dance with him, awkward thing that he was, instead of some pretty woman. Finally, he allows himself to simply enjoy the dance. And after he gets to enjoying it, he feels like it ends all too soon. 

And then Solomon kisses him, and it’s as if someone made time stop for the whole world for as long as it lasts, and it feels like it lasts quite a long time - too long - before John pulls away, looking for something to say. God, everyone saw that, didn’t they? Everyone saw, and now everything’s ruined, right? He’s off the case for sure. Off of everything. He’ll lose his job for this, won’t he?

Except, once he gets a good look around the room, he sees that, in fact, not a person in the place is looking at them. Everyone split off into groups, minding their own potatoes, drinking or crooning along to the song as best as their whiskey-logged voices can manage. John’s been kissed, by a man, no less, and the world hasn’t come crashing down around him. Suddenly, he’s catching the end of some apology Solomon’s sheepishly rattling off, and, to John’s great disappointment, he lets go of him. John stops him halfway through his explanation of the kiss.

“Won’t they mind?” He asks, stepping closer to Solomon again, his whisper comes out as conspiratorial, a tone John didn’t know he had.

“Who’s ‘they’?” 

“Them. The other men here. Anyone!” 

“Not one of those types of places, Joe. I don’t think any of these people are particularly concerned with what you do, so long as you aren’t botherin’ them.” Solomon explains.

The concept is so novel, so plain yet so unrealistic that if it weren’t for clear evidence in support of the bar patrons’ nonchalance at this public display of homosexuality, John wouldn’t have believed him. But Solomon seemed to be right. At The Island, folks seemed to just sort of do their own thing. Sure, they drank, but he also drank. Come to think of it, he could definitely remember Edward confessing to him once that Crozier himself drank. So what was the problem then? 

“In that case, I’d rather like it if you were to kiss me again.” 

And so Solomon did.


End file.
